


I'm Not Calling You A Ghost

by enigmaticagentscully



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-09 12:37:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3249956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmaticagentscully/pseuds/enigmaticagentscully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a trip to the Emerald Graves ends in tragedy, Varric discovers that there is life after death, and it looks a hell of a lot like this one. But a little thing like being dead can’t keep a good dwarf down, and when a light at the end of the tunnel appears, there are unexpected consequences for more than just him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic assumes a female elven Inquisitor. Unapologetic Varric/Cassandra goodness, but you’re gonna have to wait for it. There may be some background Inquisitor/Cullen too, as well as most of the main characters naturally making the odd appearance. Feedback is very much appreciated, as I don't write fic often, and post it even less. This is a WIP and will have multiple chapters eventually. Enjoy :)

When he thought about it later, Varric decided his death was particularly lacklustre. He would have preferred something with a bit more bang – a dramatic last stand against an archdemon, perhaps, or some kind of heroic self-sacrifice. Actually, dying in his bed filthy rich at a ripe old age had a certain appeal too, but these days that seemed more unlikely than anything he might write in his books.

At least it was quick. The Venatori mages had taken them by surprise halfway through a clearing on the way back to their camp. The Emerald Graves was not as peaceful a place as it first looked, and three days into the forest they had long since become used to keeping an eye out for the local wildlife as well as the so-called ‘Freemen of the Dales’. But Venatori here? There was no reason for it, no possible cause. Perhaps the intention had simply been to catch them off guard, and if it was, thought Varric sourly, it had worked. It wasn’t until the first bolt of magic had sizzled over his head and earthed itself in the tree behind him that any of them had realised they were under attack, and by then the mages had them pretty well surrounded.

The battle raged around him. Dorian was engaged in some kind of one-on-one magical duel with one of the bastards, their hands raised and sweat dripping from both their faces, raw magic crackling around them and throwing back anyone else who came close. Cassandra was surrounded by a small pile of prone bodies, pummelling someone into submission with her shield and trying to keep anyone from approaching the Inquisitor. Their fearless leader herself was standing stock still with an intent look of concentration on her face, raising her marked hand to the sky. Varric had seen her do this before a couple of times, and if they could just keep the Venatori off her long enough for it to work, the mages would be having a seriously bad day. Overlooked for the moment, he let off a bolt from his crossbow in the direction of the mage Dorian was facing just on the off-chance, and without waiting to see whether it hit its mark, dashed across the clearing, dodging the spells that were flying overhead. A Venatori in robes of deep blood red was pointing his finger at the Inquisitor, and intoning the words of what looked like an extremely nasty curse. Varric raised Bianca and sent a bolt flying that went wide and hit the man in the shoulder. The mage swung round, his raised finger pointed at Varric like the tip of an arrow, and the sharp sickening power of the curse shot through the air towards him just as the Inquisitor let out a wordless yell and a burst of vivid green light filled the clearing...

And then it was gone. Not just the Venatori mage, not the curse, but the clearing and everything in it. Varric was flat on his back, his head ringing. The breath had been knocked out of him. The light was different. There was an eerie skittering noise on the edge of hearing. He was lying not on grass, but hard rock, inches deep in dust, staring up at the sky which was...also the ground. Jagged rocks carved with unrecognisable symbols and thick grey dust. He frowned, trying to make sense of this, when the faint green light surrounding him started to grow stronger. He tried to get to his feet but everything felt heavy, and there was a sensation of being _pulled_...

When the light died away he was standing in the clearing again, and the ground was littered with mage corpses. They’d won the battle then. Good for them. But he couldn’t feel relieved; his unease about what had just happened still prickled at the back of his mind, and it wasn’t helped by the fact that all three of his companions didn’t seem to be celebrating. They were gathered around something on the ground nearby, their faces identical masks of shock. As he drew closer, Varric realised what it was – his clothes. And his boots and Bianca, and even, glinting in the grass, his earrings. They were all lying on what appeared to be a small pile of ash. He looked down at himself automatically, and saw (as he had thought) that he was still apparently fully clothed. Bianca was slung across his back, a reassuring presence. And yet...

Varric cleared his throat loudly, but none of them reacted. The Inquisitor had sunk to her knees, head in her hands. Dorian and Cassandra just stood there, staring as if frozen in place. Varric walked up carefully, a cold dread settling in the pit of his stomach, and put his hand out to touch the Inquisitor’s shoulder. It passed through as if she were made of smoke. He bent down to pick up his shirt from the ground, and his fingers passed through that too. His actions elicited not a single response from any of them. Varric may have been a professional liar, but he made it a point not to lie to himself, and as the Inquisitor’s shoulders started to shake with sobs, it didn’t take a genius to get a grasp of the situation.

He didn’t remember much of what happened next. He didn’t remember how long they stayed there in that spot, as if enough time could reverse what had happened. He didn’t remember who finally broke the silence, or what they said. He remembered following his friends unheeded back to their small makeshift camp, and he remembered the way the grass didn’t move as he stepped on it, the way the wind rustled the branches of the trees but didn’t stir a hair on his head. He was probably in some kind of shock, he decided, which was ridiculous. Who ever heard of a ghost in shock? Once his mind started to clear a little, he tried to get through to the others in every way he could think of; yelling close to their ears, trying to pick up things around them, standing in their way as they walked (which he only tried once, as seeing someone you knew from the _inside_ as they walked right through you was not a pleasant experience). Nothing worked. He may as well have been trying to interact with a dream. Great. He was a ghost who couldn’t even be seen or heard. So much for haunting.

As the sun started to set, Varric found himself sitting alone on a fallen log at the edge of a small cliff just a couple of hundred yards from camp. The trees were so thick in the Emerald Graves that places like this were rare; where you could see the forest spread out for miles around you, the tops of the trees glowing in the dying light, their long shadows merging into darkness beneath the canopy. He didn’t cast a shadow of his own anymore, but for the first time that day Varric found his thoughts were not ones of blind panic or grim morbidity, but of peace. It was a beautiful place, and he supposed if this was where he had to die, he couldn’t have asked for a better tomb.

He was startled out of his reverie by the arrival of Cassandra, who sat down right next to him, so close that he automatically shifted away a little along the log. He was surprised for a moment that she would choose to share the spot with him, until he remembered she had no possible way of knowing he was there. Still, he’d be damned if he’d move now, since he was here first. Cassandra stared at the vista below for a few minutes, and then rummaged around in the bag slung over her shoulder and pulled out a book. He expected her to start reading, but instead she laid it across her lap as a flat surface, laid a sheet of paper on top and began to write what looked like a letter. He didn’t look over her shoulder to read – dead or not he should still maintain some semblance of common decency, surely – and he had just decided to head back and see what the others were up to when a soft noise on the edge of hearing made him stop. He stared at the Seeker in utter astonishment. She was crying. Continuing to write, irritably rubbing at her eyes every now and cursing quietly when a tear splashed onto the paper to mar the ink. Varric had never seen her cry, never really thought her capable of it, if he was honest. He had certainly never expected her to cry over _him_. But what other reason could there be? He had the sudden foolish urge to put his arm around her, to comfort her even if she wasn’t aware of it. But if he had even attempted such a thing while he was alive she would probably have socked him in the jaw...hell, she would never have let him see her like this in the first place. But whatever she was feeling, it was undoubtedly his fault, so he did the only thing he could – he stayed with her while she cried, her pen scratching across the paper, the forest darkening around them. It was like watching the world end.

 

* * *

 

The journey back to Skyhold was not a fun one, for Varric least of all. The party was slow and dismal, and not being able to talk to anyone was starting to a take a toll. He started to avoid the Inquisitor and Dorian, because they kept talking _about_ him. It was their way of getting over his death he supposed, but since Varric wasn’t really over it himself yet he just found it depressing, and since their distance from any Inquisition bases meant that they had no way of getting news to anyone else, he knew he’d have to endure this all over again when they returned to the castle. For the most part he hung around Cassandra because she kept to herself, and since she had never deigned to speak to him much while he was alive anyway walking beside her in silence didn’t seem so strange. Besides – and why not admit it to himself? – he was worried about her. She hadn’t broken down again, but she didn’t seem quite her normal self either. She was the type to take the loss of a companion hard, and he wondered if she saw it as a personal failing. Perhaps they had never exactly been friends, but they were far from enemies any more, if they ever had been, and he took no pleasure at all in seeing her suffer. He vaguely recalled threatening her once after a particularly reckless battle charge that if he died because of her he would come back and haunt her for the rest of her days. It didn’t seem so funny now, and anyway the threat rather lost its punch if she didn’t actually _know._

He caught the edge of a conversation one evening when he was lying on the ground next to the campfire, trying to sleep and failing. He couldn’t seem to do it at all anymore, which made the nights even more boring than the days. He bitterly remembered all the times he had stayed up late into the night writing, wishing he didn’t need to sleep so he could get more done. Sodding idiot. Now he spent hours with just his own thoughts for company, wondering what it would be like to stay like this forever, in the world but apart from it, helpless to do anything but watch for eternity. He was staring up at the stars and just wondering if he hit himself hard enough on the head he could knock himself out, when he heard Dorian’s voice floating softly through the trees.

“...hardly said a word in days.”

“Well she’s not that talkative at the best of times.”

Sparkler and the Inquisitor entered the small clearing and stopped just at the edge. They had been out gathering herbs for some potion, Varric remembered. He’d thought they were already back and asleep in their tents, but it must have taken longer than they expected. He propped himself up on one elbow and watched them converse just outside the circle of firelight.

“She hasn’t eaten much either,” Dorian said quietly.

The Inquisitor looked troubled. “I know. But I don’t know that I can say anything to her that would help. I understand how she feels but...no actually, I don’t. I understand how _I_ feel. I didn’t think Cassandra even really liked him.”

Dorian shrugged. “I’m not so sure. Besides, that may not be important. There’s a certain type of person who feels responsible for anything that happens within a three mile radius of them, regardless of whether it’s justified or not. I wonder if Cassandra considers this her fault. She was, after all, the one who brought Varric into the Inquisition.”

“I thought he did that himself.”

“Either way, she knew him longer than any of us did.”

There was a brief moment of silence, and the Inquisitor sighed heavily. “You know the worst part about this is that I keep thinking how good Varric is at this stuff,” she said. “He’d tell some crazy story to make us all laugh, or make some comment to annoy Cassandra and force a response. I never thought I’d miss their bickering.”

In the shadows, Varric saw Dorian put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I know,” he said. “We get back to Skyhold tomorrow, perhaps we should get some rest.”

They parted ways and headed to their tents, leaving Varric lying alone on the ground, sleepless and with a tight knot of guilt in his stomach.

 

* * *

 

The last day was the worst; they were due to be back by midday, but every member of the party was dragging their feet, clearly hoping to put off the inevitable moment of return when their news would have to be told. The day was bright and crisp and beautiful, but they trudged slowly along the roads through the mountains in silence, grim faced, each lost in their own thoughts. It was nearing sunset when they finally reached Skyhold, greeted by anxious faces and a barrage of questions.

Varric sat on a low stone wall and watched from a distance, not wanting to hear what was said. The afterlife was extremely depressing so far. Even if he never made it to the Maker’s side he was still certainly thinking of writing him a strongly worded letter. He spotted Cassandra striding off across the courtyard in the direction of her room, and followed her without really thinking about it. Maybe he was haunting her after all. He could walk faster now, he realised, easily able to keep up with her longer paces, though he supposed technically he wasn’t really walking at all in the physical sense. Maybe given time he’d be able to just think himself to wherever he wanted to go. It would be a slim comfort, but there had to be some benefit to this whole situation.

She didn’t bother closing the door when she entered her room, so Varric didn’t feel too much like he was intruding when he followed her in. He had to admit his ideas about other people’s privacy had become rather more...flexible in the last few days, but ghost or not, he wasn’t about to start watching people sleep. Especially not Cassandra. She didn’t seem bothered about privacy at the moment however, because she was too busy hauling out a trunk from beneath her bed. When she opened it Varric saw, amongst other things, a pile of his own books. Cassandra stared at them for a moment, and then rummaged around in the pack she still had slung over one shoulder and pulled out a large hessian sack – the kind the Inquisition often used to store food at their camps. She started grabbing the books from the trunk and threw them with some force, one by one, into the sack. She had more than he’d known about. The book that she had taken on the road with her soon followed the rest, and when she was done she stood up, threw the sack on the floor and kicked it viciously across the room. Where it hit Cole’s feet.

The kid looked down in mild surprise. “Ow.” He was standing just inside the open doorway, and Varric wondered that he hadn’t noticed him enter. Hell, Cole could give him some lessons in being a ghost.

Cassandra, meanwhile, had frozen briefly at the unexpected intrusion, but her shoulders relaxed after a few seconds. There was something inherently non-threatening about Cole, sudden entrances aside.

“Sorry,” she said, a little brusquely. “I didn’t know you were there.”

Cole was staring at her with the unnerving gaze he had that made you feel like a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. “The door was open,” he said. “I followed the screaming.”

“Screaming?” said Cassandra. “From where?”

“You.”

“I wasn’t...” Comprehension dawned on her face. “Oh.” She sat down heavily on the edge of her bed.

“You hurt,” said Cole, still gazing at her with a puzzled look. “Why? It doesn’t make sense.”

“No, it doesn’t,” said Cassandra. She sighed. “It’s complicated. I am sorry if I have caused you discomfort Cole, but I don’t have the strength to explain this to you now.”

“But I don’t understand,” said Cole. “Everyone’s hurting because they think he’s gone, and I don’t understand why.” He turned to Varric, a helpless expression on his face.

“Do you know?”


	2. Chapter 2

Cassandra had not always been particularly adept at dealing with other people, she knew. It was a failing, she supposed, but one that she had never let hinder her in carrying out her duty. And it was part of the reason she had been so eager to leave behind her life in Nevarra as soon as possible; her vast extended family scheming and lying and jostling for power and prestige, half of them living off the honour of the family reputation without having done anything much themselves to earn it. She had never known whether to be proud or ashamed of her name. The famous royal line of Pentaghast, renowned in politics, war and dragon slaying. Cassandra felt no particular desire to slay dragons, whatever Iron Bull might think, but if it had truly been a choice between that and politics she knew which one she would have ended up doing. Dragons were simple. You knew where you stood with dragons, even if where you stood was often on fire. People, on the other hand, frequently mystified her.

Cole – whether or not he could actually be counted as a person at all –  was currently mystifying her even more so than usual. She had actually been rather touched that he’d sought her out, in spite of her desire to be alone. There was something reassuringly non judgemental about Cole, and he possessed an apparently limitless supply of compassion, understanding and patience for everyone he met, a trait of which she felt slightly envious. He wasn’t displaying it at the moment however. Instead he was standing just inside the doorway, ignoring her completely and apparently in quite absorbed conversation with thin air.

“I don’t know,” he was saying, in response to nothing. “Shouldn’t I? I could pretend not to if you like.”

There was a pause in which he nodded slightly. From what she could see under that absurd hat of his, his face was creased into a thoughtful frown. Cassandra watched him, utterly bemused as Cole carried on a conversation with himself. The spirit...boy...whatever he was didn’t always make much sense to her, but this was bizarre. Was it some strange demonstration of sorrow?

“But you _aren’t_ ,” he was saying earnestly, apparently talking quite intently to nothing at all. I just know. They’re shadows and you’re the light that casts it. It’s different.” He paused, his head tilted to one side, and then smiled at nothing. “I don’t mind. I can’t do your voice though.”

He turned back to face her. “Varric wants to speak to you.”

“Cole, Varric is—”

“Standing right here, Seeker.”

Cassandra froze. The voice was indeed Cole’s, but the words, the inflection...

“Stop it,” she said sharply.

“Yeah that is kind of creepy, kid,” said Cole. “Wait, are you just going to repeat _everything_ I...okay, I’ll take that as a yes.” There was a brief pause before he spoke again:

“There once was a lady from Hightown,

Who opened the door in her nightgown,

On seeing a guard,

She started so hard,

That her—”

“ _What in Andraste’s name is going on?_ ” exploded Cassandra.

“Sorry,” said Cole. “I couldn’t resist. It was the chance of a lifetime...or not, as the case may be.”

“Cole, please, I don’t understand what you’re—”

“He’s not speaking for himself, he’s speaking for me, since apparently he’s the only one in the whole sodding world who can hear me right now. You know, for a Seeker of Truth, you’re pretty slow on the uptake.”

“Wait, you’re saying you’re speaking for _Varric?_ But that can’t be true. You’re...he’s gone. Dead.”

“Come off it Seeker, why would the kid lie?”

“I don’t _doubt_ you Cole,” said Cassandra, trying to keep her voice calm. “I don’t think you’re lying, but you must be...mistaken.”

Cole sighed, and he did it in such a...such a _Varric_ kind of way that an involuntary shiver went down Cassandra’s spine. “Someone less stubborn would have been a better place to start,” he muttered. “Okay, how about this. Cole hasn’t read my books, right? Well then he wouldn’t know that in the last Swords and Shields there’s a scene in which the Viscount is murdered in the bath, apparently by his scheming second in command.”

Cassandra crossed her arms. “He...you could easily have seen that in my mind,” she pointed out.

“Well, in the _next_ book, it turns out the real killer is—”

“Don’t tell me that!”

“Ha! So you believe me?”

Actually, the sight of Cole – diffident, gentle Cole – acting so _smug_ was more convincing than any words he could have said. Cassandra opened her mouth to speak, not quite sure herself what she was going to say, but Cole cut her off, speaking in the businesslike tone that was so completely strange coming from him:

“In the chest under my bed there’s an unfinished draft of a novel about a dragon-slayer which I based on you to piss you off but couldn’t make work. There’s also a ring that belonged to my brother. I should have thrown it away years ago after what he did but I...hell, I don’t know why I didn’t. That huge crack that appeared in the wall of the main hall a couple of weeks ago was actually my fault, because I lost a bet with Tiny, but if you want the details you’ll have to ask him. Sister Nightingale will tell you that I’ve been corresponding regularly with my editor, who is currently trying to convince me to write a tell-all insider expose of the Inquisition and its members. She’ll also tell you that I haven’t gotten a single letter from Bianca since she left Skyhold, and I had to ask Nightingale to send scouts to make sure she got back home safely, which she did. Are you actually still doubtful it’s me or are you just trying to get me to admit to things for your own amusement at this point?”

Cassandra’s head felt a little fuzzy, and she grabbed onto the first piece of information she could even begin to comprehend. “You based a novel off me?”

“That’s what you want to focus on right now? Seeker, you have weird priorities.”

“Cole, could you stop, ah, _translating_ , please?” Cassandra said, somewhat desperately. “I need to talk to you. Actual you.”

Cole nodded, a wide smile spreading across his face. He was happy because Varric was happy, she realised, because he thought she believed him. Or perhaps it was because a traitorous tendril of hope was unfurling in her own chest.

“Varric is there,” she said slowly, “but he can’t be seen? By anyone?”

“Only me,” said Cole, and to her relief it really did sound like _him_ again, dreamy, the words coming slightly out of rhythm. “Windows without shutters, I didn’t want to look but there he was. He’s as real as me now.”

“He’s a...a ghost?”

Cole frowned. “No, they’re the other side of the coin, dark to his light. They’re gone and he remains. He hasn’t got the hang of haunting. The screaming shouldn’t be coming from _him_. He wanted to tell you but you were too far away, even in front of him. The words were lost and you walked right through.”

Cassandra didn’t much like the sound of that last bit. “So he’s been spying on me?”

“He didn’t intend to,” said Cole. “He was lonely. He didn’t watch you undress.”

She felt her face redden a little. “Well, that is comforting,” she said drily. She felt rather lightheaded, the single fact that had defined her world for the last few days had suddenly become a great deal more complicated. What in Andraste’s name was she supposed to _do_ in this situation? She had trouble enough dealing with Varric when he was alive. Unconsciously she had risen from the bed and started pacing up and down. Cole was watching her expectantly, and now she felt the persistent pressure of a second pair of eyes, unseen but unwavering, a presence wholly imagined. She could almost hear an impatiently tapping foot.

“I think...perhaps it is time we got the others,” she managed finally.

* * *

 

The room was hushed with expectation. Solas made a final pass with his hand, muttering silently, and opened his eyes. “There’s certainly something there,” he said. “Whether it is truly Varric I cannot say. But I would trust Cole’s judgement.”

“I’m inclined to believe it too,” said Cassandra, doing her best to sound businesslike. “It did sound like Varric when he spoke for him. I’ve never known Cole to be so...well, coherent.” She paused and glanced at the boy. No offense.”

The War Room was more crowded than usual; besides the usual compliment of Josephine, Leliana, Cullen and the Inquisitor, the Inquisition’s three primary mages had been called for. Vivienne and Dorian had grudgingly deferred to Solas’ greater experience of spirits (Cassandra was rather relieved that Dorian had not brought up his knowledge of necromancy under the circumstances) and were watching him as he worked. The Lady Morrigan had _not_ been sent for, but had turned up anyway and was leaning in the shadow of the doorway, looking intrigued. With Cole and Cassandra there too, there wasn’t room to swing a nug. The only apparently empty space in the room was the single chair that had been drawn out and placed next to the war table, on which Cole had confidently informed them Varric was sitting. It was the only way they could have any idea where he was...in the sense that he could actually be said to _be_ anywhere if he had no physical presence.

Josephine stood hovering by the chair looking tentatively hopeful, her eyes red from crying. She had always had a bit of a soft spot for Varric, Maker knew why. The Inquisitor was on the other side, next to Cullen, her eyes flicking between the chair and Solas.

“Help me out here Solas,” she said. “What exactly is this?”

The elf looked unusually hesitant. “Nothing I’ve ever seen before. One thing I can tell you is that Cole is correct. Varric is most definitely _not_ a ghost. Nor is he dead. In fact, as far as I can tell there’s nothing actually wrong with him.”

This statement was met with unsurprisingly sceptical looks from the company at large.

“I assume there’s going to be a ‘but’ after that?” said the Inquisitor.

“Well, this is all supposition you understand. When we die, our souls pass through the Fade on the way to the next life, while our physical bodies are left behind in this plane, to decay. Somehow Varric seems to have got this...well, the wrong way around.”

“Typical,” snorted Cassandra, unable to help herself.

“Always have to be different, don’t we Varric?” said Dorian, with a smirk.

Solas was looking thoughtful. “Seeker, there was no body to be found after the battle, am I correct?”

Cassandra nodded.

“There was a lot of ash,” explained the Inquisitor. “Naturally we assumed...”

Solas waved his hand vaguely, cutting her off. “Of course, naturally. You said Varric was hit by a curse? My theory is that whatever spell the Tevinter mage cast interacted somehow with your own powers over the Fade.”

“So it’s my fault?” said the Inquisitor, casting a guilty look at the chair.

“You couldn’t have known what would happen,” interjected Cullen comfortingly.

“The spell would have been intended to kill,” continued Solas. “Instead it simply separated body from soul. In fact, it’s very likely you saved Varric’s life.”

“Well I didn’t do a very good job of it.”

“On the contrary, you have achieved something quite remarkable, albeit by accident. As far as I’m aware, prior to this, physical entry to the Fade has only been achieved by yourself at Adamant Fortress.”

The Inquisitor was frowning. “Wait...so if his soul is here with us, then does that mean...?”

“His physical body is in the Fade,” finished Solas.

“Shit,” said Cole.

As one movement, every head in the room turned to stare at him.

“He’s still translating,” said Cassandra, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I take it Varric is not happy about this possibility?”

“He doesn’t like the Fade,” said Cole simply.

“He’s not the only one,” muttered the Inquisitor under her breath.

“It does of course mean,” said Solas, “that reversal might be possible. We cannot restore the dead in this way to their original state, but to all intents and purposes Varric is _not_ dead. His memories, his thoughts, everything that makes him who he is – that is all still here. It would perhaps be more accurate to say he is...homeless.”

“You’re saying we could bring his body...bring him _back?_ ” asked the Inquisitor.

“It is theoretically possible. You yourself have proven that one can enter the Fade physically and return.”

“Perhaps we shouldn’t,” said Vivienne, speaking for the first time since they had gathered. “Think of the possibilities for a moment. Varric–” she inclined her head politely towards the empty chair “-is now completely undetectable by anything but strong magic wielded by those who know what they’re looking for. Think of what he could do for the Inquisition. Think of what he might learn in an enemy stronghold and relay to us through Cole.”

“You would leave him like this?” said Cassandra, unable to keep the horror out of her voice.

“I’m not completely heartless, my dear,” said Vivienne. “But this could be of immeasurable value. And frankly, it might be in Varric’s best interests too.”

“What do you mean?” asked the Inquisitor.

“I mean that wherever his physical body resides, it has been there for nearly a week without any form of sustenance. I’m no expert on the Fade, but surely that can’t be a good thing?”

Everyone turned automatically to Solas, who nodded. “Lady Vivienne is right,” he said. “Time doesn’t work in quite the same way in the Fade as it does here, but it’s possible Varric’s body has been wasting away while vacant. Bringing it back could just as easily kill him outright. It may be safer for him to remain incorporeal.”

Cole groaned and clutched his head. “Too many years. Not to touch or feel. Image in a mirror, ink on a page, only words trapped in their own story. Watching them grow old and die, the last man standing as the world crumbles to ash around my feet. Untouched by wind or sun or time or skin. Keeper of tales, writer of epitaphs. It _hurts_ , to see them topple one by one. ” His eyes were swimming with tears and he looked around wildly at their staring faces. “I’m embarrassing him. I’m not a good filter. I’m sorry.”

Josephine put a comforting arm around him. “What must we do,” she said firmly, “to bring Varric back?”

Solas launched into a long explanation of rituals, Fade connections, historical precedent and magical theory. Cassandra tried to keep up but soon she felt as if she were drowning in words. The Inquisitor and Cullen looked just as lost as she felt. Josphine was busy comforting Cole, Leliana was inscrutable as usual, but Vivienne and Dorian were nodding along, so thank the Maker someone knew what the elf was going on about. To her relief, the Inquisitor seized on a passing sentence.

“So we need to go back and get some of that ash then?” she said.

Solas nodded, looking a little peeved at being interrupted mid-flow. “If possible. It would make locating Varric's physical form in the Fade far easier.”

“Even using mounts, that’s still a journey of several days in dangerous territory,” said Cullen, frowning. “That’s assuming rain doesn’t wash away any trace of the ash in the meantime.”

“It will in any case take some time to prepare this ritual,” said Solas.

The Inquisitor gave Cullen’s arm a comforting squeeze, in a way that she probably thought was terribly subtle. “If it brings Varric back, it’s worth the risk,” she said.

“And how will we be sure that it is truly he that returns?” drawled a voice from the doorway. Cassandra felt herself start a little, having quite forgotten that Morrigan was present. By the looks on the faces of the others, she wasn’t the only one.

“You all speak of a vacant body,” said the witch, with no particular rancour, “but such things rarely remain so in the Fade. There are many that would gladly take him as host and return to our world by your actions. You would very likely be inviting a demon into our midst by taking this risk.”

“There are other spirits in the Fade too Morrigan,” said Leliana, frowning at her across the room. “Benevolent ones that would watch over him, perhaps even protect him from harm. As you well know.”

There was a moment of loaded silence, then Morrigan inclined her head as a gesture of acceptance. “A nice thought,” she said, “but not a common outcome to such situations. And I believe Varric himself has some experience in what can happen when these so called ‘benevolent’ spirits play guest to a human host. They do not always remain so benign indefinitely.” She nodded towards Cullen. “You. Templar. If the dwarf returns as an abomination, would you do your duty and strike down your friend?”

Cullen opened his mouth to reply, but closed it abruptly as Cassandra shot him a warning glare. This was no longer his responsibility. She turned to look Morrigan squarely in the eye, and spoke with a firmness that brooked no argument.

“I will do it,” she said. “If it comes to that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, I was sitting here for a good ten minutes before posting the first chapter of this fic, wondering whether or not to tag it 'major character death' or not, because TECHNICALLY...
> 
> (and because I'm sure someone will ask, no I don't know the last line to that limerick. If you want to make one up, feel free)


	3. Chapter 3

The practice dummies were taking a beating. The courtyard rang with the sounds of blow after blow as Cassandra swung her sword, sweat sticking her hair to her forehead even in the cold mountain air. It wasn’t yet evening proper, but at this time of year the sun set early and the light was already dimming. The courtyard was emptier than usual, though whether this was due to the cold or her own presence wasn’t something she wanted to dwell upon. Certainly most people who had passed through had seemed to be in something of a hurry to be elsewhere.

She had been training for too long today she knew, and her muscles would ache tomorrow for it, but she didn’t know what else to do. There were no plans to be drawn up, so decisions to be made, no preparation that she could be a useful part of. She could not talk to anyone without the conversation turning to the one subject she hoped to avoid, and she had even less patience than usual for dealing with Josephine’s endless supply of letters to be written and paperwork to be signed. Leaving the castle was out of the question, and for once reading a book would not prove much of an effective distraction. At present Cassandra was grimly resisting the urge to go and pace the battlements with Cullen, staring out at the road to look for the Inquisitor’s return. Their leader had left the day before yesterday with just Sera and Dorian accompanying her, on the fastest mounts they could find. Quick and quiet, in and out was the intention, so they had no use for warriors, especially one who despised horses and could barely ride. It made sense, but she wished the Inquisitor had chosen to take her along as well. She felt restless, on edge, as before a battle.

The straw stuffed man that she was currently attacking received a particularly vicious blow and spun several times on its wooden stake before sagging pathetically to the ground in a heap. Cassandra stared at it for a moment before sheathing her sword. The moment when she started feeling sorry for practice dummies was the moment to admit she had been out here for long enough today. She started across the courtyard with no particular destination in mind. It helped just to walk actually, and she might have done a few circuits around the castle grounds if she hadn’t been worried about looking completely mad. And there was the problem, really.

The truth was, nervous anticipation was only the half of it. She also felt – though she hated to admit it even to herself – horribly _exposed._ The journey back to Skyhold had been unpleasant enough as it was, but knowing Varric had actually been present the entire time made it doubly uncomfortable in retrospect. She could hardly accuse him of spying on them under the circumstances, but the idea that he could be _anywhere_ now, watching and unseen...it was enough to make anyone paranoid, especially since he had apparently been following _her_ most of the time. Why he had chosen to do so was something she didn’t want to think about at the moment, but it wasn’t lost on Cassandra that Varric had also followed her to her room upon their return, before Cole had appeared. She didn’t think so ill of him that she imagined he had sinister intentions, but it gave her pause nonetheless. Just days ago she had been contemplating a world in which she would never see Varric again, and now she was imagining him lurking in every corner.

She glanced around instinctively, then stopped, trying to get a grip on herself. She was being unfair, she knew. Varric might be thoroughly annoying but he surely wouldn’t go around spying on his allies just for his own amusement. As to what he might have seen unintentionally – images flashed through her mind of tears falling on a letter, of staring at the cover of a book, of dark circles under her eyes and sorrow weighing her steps – well, she would just have to live with it. Though one thing he had _definitely_ witnessed was her declaring that she would be the one to kill him if he returned from the Fade possessed, and how he felt about that she could only imagine. She wasn’t even sure how she felt about it herself.

Why had she felt it so important that she be the one to...take care of things, should something go wrong? It was partly to ensure that Cullen wouldn’t have to, as he would no doubt have taken the duty upon himself otherwise. Cassandra knew he had done enough of that sort of thing in the past, but he shouldn’t have to endure more now he was no longer a Templar. He didn’t lack courage or determination in battle by any means, but killing a friend in cold blood, even if it was to protect others, was another matter entirely. Just because he was capable of doing it didn’t mean he should have to. This was a burden he shouldn’t have to shoulder, not on top of everything else he was going through recently.

No, the burden was hers. The _responsibility_ was hers in the end, and that was really why she had volunteered as executioner, wasn’t it? Why it had just seemed _right_ that it should be her? Varric was, and always had been, her problem. She had brought him here, to this place, to this life. As Dorian had said, she had known him longer than any of them. And didn’t she wish she hadn’t overheard _that_ particular conversation, lying sleepless in her tent while they spoke of her with such concern.Humiliating enough that she should fall apart so easily, without making others worry about her on top of their own grief.

To say Cassandra had been surprised by her own reaction to Varric’s death wouldn’t be quite accurate. To be _surprised_ implied that she had given some thought to her potential feelings beforehand, which she had not. It simply wasn’t something that had ever crossed her mind. She worried about the Inquisitor on a daily basis; this brave, reckless, indomitable woman whom they had loaded down with so much responsibility and who made herself the spearhead of every attack. Cullen too, of course, fighting a war inside as well as without, keeping his men trained and morale high all while trying not to crumble from within. Leliana, Josephine, Iron Bull...all people who could take care of themselves, certainly, but people she had come to consider friends. They were all taking a risk simply by being here. She would be a fool to think they would all come out unscathed.

But she had never worried about Varric, never considered for a moment that he would be among those to pay the ultimate price in service to the Inquisition. Not until she had been looking down at his ashes and felt the terrible dark swell of loss crash over her in a great wave. It was always the blow you didn’t see coming that hit you the hardest. Varric was one of nature’s survivors, and she could hardly imagine the world without him in it. She didn’t want to. It was absurd, that after just a few days without them, she should think of his snide comments with fondness. That she should miss his idle chatter on the road, his tales around the fire at night, and the reassuring thud of his crossbow bolts hitting their targets in battle. She had hardly been able to stand looking at his books because she knew that every character he had created had died with him, their stories forever unfinished, and now he would never get to see how the Inquisition’s story ended and he would have _hated_ that. She had always assumed he would write about them one day, to tell the world about all this even if no-one else was left to do so. Suddenly she was reminded of what Cole had said. What was it now? ‘The last man standing. Keeper of tales, writer of epitaphs’. Perhaps being a survivor wasn’t much of a blessing after all.

Urgh. She wasn’t sure she _liked_ having insight into Varric’s thoughts.

A distant sound of a door slamming brought her to her senses, and Cassandra suddenly realised that she had been so lost in thought that she’d been standing at the bottom of the steps to the hall, poised to go up, for several minutes. So much for not looking mad. Thank goodness there weren’t many people around at this time of day. The vague idea she had been fighting for the past half an hour or so swam to the front of her mind again, and she gritted her teeth in irritable resignation, before turning and heading purposefully towards the tavern. It seemed she would get no peace until this was done, and she’d put it off for long enough.

A blast of warmer air hit her as she entered the building, and those few within glanced up only briefly until she closed the door behind her. Apart from the barman there were only two Inquisition scouts deep in quiet conversation in the corner, and Krem chatting to the barmaid, who was holding a tray of washing up. She had clearly been waylaid halfway through the task but didn’t look too bothered about it. Iron Bull was conspicuously absent, as was the resident bard, and Cassandra decided not to think too carefully about the possible implications of that. She nodded briefly at Krem when he caught her eye as she passed, but moved quickly through the room and up the stairs all the way to the third floor, the low murmur of conversation fading to nothing as she climbed. This level of the tavern was only used rarely for storage, and a thin level of dust still coated the floor, broken only by footprints where crates and barrels had been dragged into piles in the corners. There wasn’t much in the way of floor space anyway; it was really more of a walkway surrounding the large square hole in the floor that cut through to the lower levels. As she had thought he would be, Cole was sitting fully visible on an old bar stool facing the stairs, his legs dangling slightly off the floor despite his height, looking for all the world as if he had been expecting her for hours. Of course he could simply have heard her coming up the stairs. And if she tried really hard, Cassandra could almost make herself believe that.

“Cole,” she said. “Is Varric with you?”

The boy nodded. “He likes to be seen.” He hopped neatly off the stool. “But you don’t. I’ll go and feed the birds.” He padded over to the nearest window – was he going to jump out of it? – then stopped and glanced back over his shoulder with a smile.

 “No, she doesn’t,” he said, and it took Cassandra a confusing moment to realise he obviously wasn’t talking to her. “It’s for you, not me.” There was a brief pause and then he said: “It doesn’t matter. You don’t need to speak, only listen.”

Cassandra tried not to wince as she imagined Varric’s reaction to _that_ statement. Instinctively she glanced towards where Cole was looking, but of course she could see nothing, and when she turned back the boy was gone. He could of course still be around somewhere unseen, but it wasn’t in his nature to be where he wasn’t wanted. Besides, if she started thinking like that she really _would_ become paranoid. Standing here apparently alone she suddenly felt terribly awkward, and it didn’t help that once again she was sure she could _feel_ Varric watching her. She paced up and down one side of the room a few times, then stopped abruptly as she realised that for all she knew she could very well be pacing _through_ him. Trying to banish this rather disturbing thought, she cleared her throat purposefully.

“Are you still...of course you’re here. Unless you’ve simply walked away. I wouldn’t put it past you.”

She had no idea what direction to speak towards, so resisting the sudden urge to follow Cole out of the window, she settled for leaning on the railing surrounding the space in the centre of the room and watching the people below as she spoke. “Well I suppose if you’re not here then no-one can hear this anyway and it doesn’t matter,” she said. “Maker’s breath, I feel ridiculous. At least I’m providing you with some amusement, I suppose.” She took a deep breath, trying to re-order her thoughts as the barmaid strolled across the floor below, carrying a tray of empty mugs. Cassandra had assumed this would be easier without having to look Varric in the eye, but perhaps that had been a mistake. Well, there was nothing for it now. Better to get it over with.

“I came to...apologise,” she said, then paused, half expecting some kind of response even though she knew there could be none. “I’m sure if you could make yourself heard, you would say that it’s only because I know you might very well be dead in a few days. Well, you’re right. You might also say that I’m only doing this _now_ because I know you can’t talk back. You’re right about that too.” She sighed heavily. “Ah, look at me. I’m trying to argue with you even now. It’s so easy to fall back on habit. I know things have never quite been easy between us, Varric, and I regret that, especially now. Of course, if you had simply told the truth from the start—”

She bit back the rest of the sentence with an effort.

“But I came to apologise, not to repeat old arguments. I am sorry. Sorry that I was forced to treat you poorly when we first met, and sorry that those unfortunate circumstances have coloured our interaction since. I’m aware that we do not have a great deal in common, but we needn’t have been enemies.” She sighed again. “Well, perhaps that is too strong a word. I never felt enmity towards you, Varric. Anger yes, but not hatred. And I don’t bear you resentment for lying about Hawke, though I wish you hadn’t. Believe it or not, I do understand the instinct to protect one’s friends.”

Cassandra paused, aware that if she continued too long she would begin to ramble. That was the problem with a one-sided conversation.

“Well, perhaps that is a subject for another time,” she said, “and I won’t take up any more of yours. I wanted to set things right between us, as much that was possible, given the circumstances. You aren’t obliged to accept my apology, but you have it, for what it’s worth.” She walked to the top of the stairs down and then stopped abruptly, her hand gripping the rail. That wasn’t it. That wasn’t what she had come here to say, and if she didn’t say it now she could never...she had the feeling of being at the edge of a great precipice, and it had nothing to do with the stairs. Her lips felt suddenly dry, but she would say the words. She owed him that much.

“Goodbye Varric,” she said quietly, and headed swiftly back down the stairs to the ground floor of the tavern at something approaching a run, fighting all the way the pointless impulse to glance back.

When she was back out in the courtyard, the icy air felt like a blessing and she breathed in great lungfuls of it, ignoring the sharp pain it caused in her chest. She walked quickly away from the tavern with no direction in mind, just wanting to create some distance between herself and the place. To her surprise, she met Vivienne coming the other way, looking elegant as always, if rather chilly, as she strolled up to greet her.

“Ah, there you are,” Vivienne said. “Solas tells me the ritual is ready, and we may begin as soon as we have the Fade ash.”

Cassandra had been so unprepared for conversation she didn’t really register this, and replied with the first thing that came into her head: “It’s unlike you to carry messages.”

“I won’t make a habit of it, my dear, don’t worry, said Vivienne, smiling faintly. “I was observing Solas’ preparations and now they are complete we both find ourselves at a loss until the ritual can be performed. I had intended to inform Varric, but since I spotted you along the way I thought it best to tell you immediately, since you’ve been twitchy about the whole situation for days.”

Cassandra grimaced. If Vivienne had noticed, then likely everyone else had too. She seemed to be an open book these days.

“Thank you for telling me,” she said curtly, ignoring the remark. “I will go and see Solas immediately.”

There was no particular reason why she _should_ , Cassandra realised as she walked away, but she too was at a loss for anything to do now. And she certainly wasn’t going with Vivienne back to the tavern again. The uncomfortably exposed feeling was back, and she realised it had as much to do with everyone else seeing more of her than she’d intended than it did with just Varric. Cassandra was a private person by nature, and still unused to being part of close group like this, here every mood subject to scrutiny. She filed the thought away for future consideration as she climbed the steps to the main hall and headed towards what was to be the staging area for the Inquisition’s latest improbable miracle.

There was a door barring the usually open archway to Solas’ circular study when she reached it, though whether it had been erected for privacy or security was anyone’s guess. Cassandra rapped on it and walked in when Solas bid her enter. The room didn’t look particularly ready for a ritual; the only sign of any preparations were a few bottles of unidentifiable liquid on the elf’s desk and faint scuffed chalk markings on the flagstones. Still, the Fade was hardly her area of expertise, so perhaps whatever preparations he and Vivienne had been doing were more intangible. He certainly looked more tired than usual, sitting behind his desk and peering at one of the bottles thoughtfully. To her surprise, Leliana was there too, hovering by his shoulder.

“I thought you might come,” Leliana said by way of greeting. “And I thought you would then come to me to see if I had any news of the Inquisitor’s return, so I decided it may be easier to simply wait for you here.”

“Do you have any news?” asked Cassandra.

Leliana shook her head. “I’m sorry, I know you hate this waiting. But at least we are ready the moment they return.”

Cassandra turned to Solas. “Do you think this will work?” she said.

Solas didn’t actually shrug, but he looked as though he was thinking about it. “I don’t honestly know,” he said wearily. “This is new territory even for me. My theory is sound. To all things there is a place, and Varric’s physical form should by all rights be here, not in the Fade. So really retrieving it does not take much in the way of raw power, it’s more a case of...pulling at the right threads. His soul is bound to his body even now, so once it returns he should be made whole almost instantaneously. The trick, as Varric would no doubt put it, is not to return his body, but to ensure it returns in the right shape.”

Cassandra blanched, memories of her time in the Fade at Adamant resurfacing to remind her of all the possible shapes entities in the Fade could take. “You fear Morrigan was correct about a demon possessing him?”

“Or Vivienne is right and we could simply bring back a rotted corpse,” said Solas, and Cassandra saw Leliana wince slightly. A similar reaction must have shown on her own face, because Solas continued hurriedly.

“There is some benefit to this unusual situation however. Varric’s body may be in the Fade, but his soul remains here, untouched. If a demon _does_ take him over, it will therefore know nothing of him or of us, so we will need to endure no doubt. It won’t be able to stand up to the simplest of questioning and we will know instantly. Then of course, you would have to...” He trailed off.

“I quite understand.”

“Are you sure about this, Cassandra?” asked Leliana softly.

She nodded curtly. “Solas, if it does come to that,” she said, “will it kill him for good? He won’t simply be trapped here in his current state, will he?”

Solas shook his head. “No, I believe if his physical body is destroyed in this plane, the connection would be severed and his soul would go...well, who knows? To the Fade, to the next life, to the Maker’s side...perhaps back to the Stone, as I believe the Dwarves would have it. But he would be dead, from our perspective.” He smiled kindly, a rare expression on him. “You would not be condemning him to a fate worse than death, if that is what worries you.”

Cassandra was spared thinking of a response to this by a loud hammering on the door and the immediate entrance of a soldier, looking red faced and harried. He stopped dead when they all turned to look at him, clearly having expected to encounter only Solas. His eyes flicked between the three of them as he tried to work out who to address, until Leliana stepped forward. “What is it, Smithson?” she said anxiously. “Is there news?”

The soldier saluted belatedly and said in a breathless voice:

“They’re back, sir. And they say they have what we need.”

 

* * *

 

 

Varric opened his eyes. Cassandra looked into them and the point of her sword at his throat did not waver.

“It’s me,” he said.

“Prove it.”

“Would you like me to recite the limerick again, Seeker?” he said, and his face split into a familiar grin. Cassandra lowered her sword, surprised and not a little embarrassed by the sudden overwhelming rush of relief that swept through her. She had to work to keep her voice steady as she announced: “It’s him.”

There was a brief moment of silence, and then she added, “...and Maker’s breath, would someone _please_ get him some clothes.”

A cheer went up from the small group gathered in the study, and Cullen hurried forwards with a pile of clothing (so at least _someone_ had thought of that, thank goodness) which Varric hastily pulled on. Soon people were rushing forward with hugs, handshakes, pats on the back and even (in Josephine’s case) a kiss on the cheek. Solas, who had opened his eyes at the exactly the same moment as Varric, looked drained but quietly pleased. Varric was hustled out into the main hall, where anxious faces broke into smiles of relief. It seemed like half of Skyhold had been waiting; Cassandra spotted the bard from the tavern, Lead Scout Harding, that dwarven Arcanist whose name she couldn’t recall...Varric had become quite a vital fixture of the Inquisition it seemed, and everyone was overjoyed at his safe return. Any good news in a time like this was a blessing. The dwarf in question was laughing happily even while looking a little awkward at being the centre of so much attention. Someone – she suspected Iron Bull – had provided him with a flagon of ale, and the mood in the hall was rapidly moving towards that of a party. Over the babble of voices she could hear the bard tuning up her lute and strumming a few experimental chords. There would doubtless be a new song added to her set by the end of the night.

Suddenly the hall seemed stuffy and uncomfortable. Her sword hung heavy at her hip. Cassandra needed air. Unnoticed, she left the hall and walked back alone across the empty courtyard to her room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still with Cass for this chapter, but we'll be back to Varric's POV next time. If you're wondering where things can go from here, you'll just have to wait and see. Apologies for slow updates, but never fear, I have plenty more planned for this fic! Comments very much appreciated, as always :)


	4. Chapter 4

“Varric! How’s it going?”

Varric sighed quietly when Iron Bull hailed him, but tried to arrange his face into a friendly smile. He had been taking a circuitous route around the battlements, intending to find a quiet spot to catch up with some writing – quite aside from his editor nagging him about the latest chapters, he was well behind on correspondence now – but it seemed he was fated again to be drawn into conversation. This had been happening pretty much non-stop since he had...returned, a couple of days ago. He seemed to be the most popular guy in Skyhold these days. He paused to wait for Bull to reach him and the two of them started down the stone steps together to the courtyard below.

The qunari grinned down at him. “So how’s the afterlife treating you?”

“Can’t complain,” said Varric, falling into step beside him as they reached ground level – no easy feat considering Bull’s strides were about three times the length of his own. “Not exactly what I’d pictured, but at least my parents aren’t here. I wasn’t looking forward to _that_ conversation.”

Bull chuckled. “I hear you. Could be worse, right? At least you’re not stuck in limbo forever. You know, spying on people aside, that’s gotta suck in the long run. Not being able to touch anything...or anyone. Not the kind of afterlife I’d go for.”

“Yeah, a few days was more than enough for me,” said Varric. “I was thinking of writing a book about it though. Maybe a guy who gets killed and then hangs around as a ghost to solve his own murder.”

“Seems kinda pointless if he can’t do anything about it,” said Bull.

Varric shrugged. “I’ll throw in a handsome rebellious young Tevinter mage who’s the only one that can see him. He can do the fighting and spice things up a bit.”

“You’re writing in the Vint as your own love interest? Weird.”

“Actually I was going to base the main character off you,” said Varric mildly. “Writing about myself is boring.”

They’d come to a kind of natural stop, and Bull leaned casually against a nearby tree, making it creak slightly. He looked down at Varric thoughtfully.

“Well I’m not gonna tell you that I wouldn’t make a better main character. Just make sure I get to do _some_ fighting, I don’t want to hang around letting Dorian steal all the glory for the whole book.” Bull frowned. “You really think your life is boring? You’ve fought _dragons_. You just came back from the dead a couple of days ago. There are at least half a dozen groups that want your skin for being part of the Inquisition, not even counting people with a grudge against you personally. Hell, pretty much everywhere you go ends up exploding! I’d love to see what your idea of an _interesting_ life is.”

“When you put it like that, maybe I should have stayed a ghost.”

 “You’re telling me,” grinned Bull. We were going to have a wake. Food, music, plenty of booze. It was gonna be great. You’ve disappointed a lot of people by coming back from the dead, you know.”

Varric grinned back. “Have it anyway,” he said. “Who doesn’t want to go to their own wake? I expect there to be touching and heartfelt speeches.”

Bull slapped him heartily on the shoulder – he was gonna feel that one later – and laughed. “You’re on!” he said. “Tonight at the tavern, as planned. You can be our guest of honour.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

A few minutes later, Bull was headed off towards the tavern and Varric climbed the steps to the main hall, thinking vaguely of sitting in the garden for a while, maybe considering the plot for his next book. He wasn’t really an outdoors kind of person, but it was somewhere you could usually get some peace and quiet at least. After so many days of isolation, he now felt strangely crowded and had to shake off the moment of surprise every time someone talked to him directly. It would pass, probably, but it wasn’t helping that everyone was being doubly friendly and sociable towards him since his return. There was nothing like being dead for improving one’s popularity; if he’d stayed gone for good they’d probably have nominated him for next Divine. Varric grimaced at his own train of thought. There was nothing like being dead for improving one’s cynicism too, apparently. He shouldn’t blame his friends for being glad to see him safe, he’d surely have felt the same way if this had happened to one of them.

The one person he hadn’t seen much of was Cassandra. True, they had rarely socialised in the general course of things, but she seemed to be going out of her way to avoid him; in fact he couldn’t remember seeing her at all after waking up to her sword pointed at his jugular. If it had been anyone else he would have thought she was avoiding him out of guilt for that, but it hadn’t been the first time Cassandra had done it – probably wouldn’t be the last either, he thought ruefully – and at least this time there was a decent reason. He didn’t want to be an abomination any more than the next guy.

He had the vague uneasy feeling that he’d done something wrong. Of course, Cassandra tended to have that effect on people, but it seemed unfair that she should be able to do it even when not actually present. Besides, it was...frustrating. In the past couple of months after the whole Hawke debacle they had reached a kind of truce, the last great point of contention between them no longer relevant. Oh they’d still snipe at each other, sure, but there was no real spite there anymore. They didn’t exactly have the kind of easygoing friendship that he enjoyed with most of their companions, but they could hold a civil conversation on occasion. She asked him about his books sometimes when they were on the road together, and he told her tales of Kirkwall. And now she had, to his great surprise, actually apologised to him. It had been awkward, grudging even, and done for all the wrong reasons, but sincere enough.

Yet now they seemed to be back at square one. Had he offended her by dying, or by coming back?

The garden was blissfully quiet as expected, since few people stayed long out here on a cold day like this. Mother Giselle was in silent prayer at a statue of Andraste in one corner, but only nodded and smiled as he passed. A gardener whose name he could never quite recall was pulling up weeds from the half frozen ground, and apart from his quiet grunts of effort and the occasional sounds of birds chattering in the trees, a soft silence reigned. Except...

“I’d heard rumours, but one can never tell. A spirit of faith?” Quiet it might be, but that voice was unmistakeably Vivienne’s, her clipped words carrying faintly across the icy air, every vowel crisply in place. Varric strolled in the direction it came from, curious to see what had brought the Iron Lady out here. When the reply came he was astonished to hear Morrigan’s voice.

“Twas what she believed, certainly,” the witch said, sounding guarded.

“And you say it extended her natural lifespan? Even aided her in battle?”

A sudden babble of voices from a nearby window drowned out the sound of the conversation, so Varric moved closer, slowing down as he approached. He could just make out the two figures a few yards away behind a cluster of bushes. If he stopped here he could probably hear what was said without them noticing him. They were technically speaking in a public place after all, so it wasn’t exactly like eavesdropping....sod it, this _was_ exactly like eavesdropping, and he didn’t care. There was no way he was going to miss this. Vivienne and Morrigan were two people who were very much alike in temperament but so diametrically opposed in their views that they had probably loathed each other on principle even before they had ever met. Just to see them in the same room together was to feel the temperature drop (possibly literally, since Vivienne liked the warmth and Varric had suspicions about Morrigan’s subtle use of ice magic) but to find them actually having a conversation by choice was unprecedented. Morrigan certainly seemed less than pleased, her voice sour as she spoke.

“Tell me, why did you not ask Sister Nightingale of this instead?” she said.

“I didn’t wish to upset her at a time like this by reminding her of lost friends,” replied Vivienne.

“But you have no such qualms about me, clearly.”

Vivienne laughed. “I can’t imagine you considered her a friend, given your...views.”

“She was a foolish old woman who was so indoctrinated by the cage in which she had spent her life that she was blind to its bars,” said Morrigan bluntly. “She showed mercy and compassion to those who did not deserve it, and was so taken advantage of by everyone around her.” She paused, weighing her words. “But she was also woman of great power and great principle, two things which I admire. She had the will to leave behind a comfortable life and seek to change the world with her own hands, regardless of what others thought. It is an attitude I respect, despite our disagreements.”

“Well aren’t you full of surprises, my dear,” said Vivienne.

“To one who judges as quickly as you do, I probably am,” said Morrigan. But come, ask your questions, I have better things to do than stand and chat all day.”

“Oh don’t let me detain you, I’m sure,” replied Vivienne. “I merely wished to confirm hearsay. Since it was after all a spirit in the body of a man that started all this mage rebellion nonsense, I think it best to stay informed about such things. I had thought that such occurrences were rare to the point of myth. But to hear of two in the space of a few years...perhaps it is not so uncommon as believed.”

Varric did his best to see through a gap in the foliage. Both women were apparently smiling pleasantly at each other, but there was palpable tension crackling in the air between them.

“I appreciate the information, Lady Morrigan,” said Vivienne. “And your time of course, _precious_ as it is.” She gave the merest possible inclination of her head and turned to walk away.

“Madame le Fer.” Vivienne stopped and looked back, eyebrows raised questioningly.

“A warning,” said Morrigan, “though I doubt you’ll heed it. You think to use this information to somehow harness spirits of the Fade. What happened to Varric would seem to some like a curse...and to others rather like immortality, would it not? If the soul could remain untouched, and a spirit used to preserve the body...” The witch’s eyes glittered. “You are deluding yourself. Such spirits can rarely be tricked, and can never be tamed.”

“Perhaps I am not the only one to judge too quickly,” said Vivienne, a hard edge to her voice. “I am no fool, my dear. My interest is academic.”

With that she turned on her heel and swept away. Morrigan watched her go with a thoughtful expression, then turned to look directly at the bush behind which Varric stood.

“You can come out if you wish,” she called dryly. “For a self-described rogue, you are remarkably inept at concealing yourself. Or have you forgotten that you are now no longer invisible?”

Varric exited the bushes and strolled towards her. “Nah, I just figured if you didn’t want me to listen you’d turn me into a toad or something.”

Morrigan’s lips quirked. “A favourite habit of mine. You heard what was said, I take it?”

“Well, people possessed by spirits is a subject I have some interest it,” said Varric wryly. “Not _academic_ interest though.”

“Yes, I heard you were in Kirkwall,” said Morrigan. “You appear to have a talent for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.” A thought seemed to occur to her. “But that isn’t all, is it? You are troubled by your own recent visit to the Fade. You are concerned that if you _were_ so possessed, you wouldn’t know.” She studied him shrewdly, clearly taking his silence for assent. “You needn’t be. Your friend Anders took on his Justice willingly. Wynne less so, but she was aware from the moment she opened her eyes that she was no longer alone. You cannot share a body with another and be ignorant of it, demon or otherwise.”

Varric let out a small sigh of relief. It had been preying on his mind more than he’d wanted to admit.

“Thanks,” he said.

“You’re...welcome,” said Morrigan, looked slightly bemused. “I speak only the truth, any with knowledge of spirits would tell you the same.”

A faint yell of ‘Mother!” made both their heads turn to see Kieran stopped at the far side of the garden, looking slightly abashed at having interrupted.

Morrigan smiled. “It seems my son now requires my presence. I am quite indispensable today.”

She gave Varric a curt, but not unfriendly nod, and walked away in Kieran’s direction. Varric watched her go, feeling in a rather better frame of mind than he had been all day, and noted that the gardener had left too, and even Mother Giselle was nowhere to be seen. He made his way to the stone bench at the edge of the garden, and sat down to write some letters, cold but completely and blissfully alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the slow updates and the short chapter this time around! I promise the next one will be added very soon, since this one was only going to be the first half - but it splits just fine where it ends here and I figured you'd rather have an update already, even a short one. Tune in next time for Varric's wake!
> 
> (P.S. Unbeknownst to him, Varric is basically writing a novelisation of the movie 'Ghost' only instead of Patrick Swayze it's a huge Qunari warrior, which frankly I think would vastly improve that film)


	5. Chapter 5

The party was in full swing when Varric arrived that evening, the ground floor of the tavern filled with tables and crowds of people, drinks in hand. The bard was playing in her usual spot, but the noise of overlapping conversations nearly drowned her out. There was even a long table of food pushed along one wall, and Varric had never seen the place so crowded. It seemed half of Skyhold had turned up. He was a little later than he had intended – inspiration had finally struck with his latest story and he’d lost track of the time – but since he was probably the first person in history to attend their own wake, he figured that put him one step ahead already. A ragged cheer from those nearest and much waving of mugs greeted him as he entered, and he gave an exaggerated bow before heading to the tables where Bull and his Chargers had taken up residence. At least Tiny was easy to spot in a crowd.

“Hey Varric, you finally made it!” said Bull cheerfully as he approached. “Pull up a chair, we were beginning to think you’d gotten lost in the Fade again on the way here.”

Varric sat down. “Am I too late for the eulogy?”

“You’re the writer, aren’t you?” said Krem. “If you didn’t write it there isn’t going to be one.”

“We’ve got music and plenty of booze though, as promised,” added Rocky, gesturing to the impressive array of mugs littering the table.

“Speaking of, got something for the dwarf of the hour,” said Bull. “Special Tevinter ‘ale’. Got a hold of some off the back of a wagon in the Hinterlands last week, you can’t get it over here usually.”

“Here,” said Krem, passing him a mug. “The best I can say about it is that it probably won’t kill you again.”

Varric took a large swig and nearly choked. The Chargers laughed as he carefully put the mug back on the table.

“And people in Tevinter actually drink this stuff voluntarily?” he said. “No wonder they had such a huge empire, they were probably taking over countries just trying to find a decent tavern.”

“Actually I’m surprised you’re still upright,” grinned Bull. “Sera didn’t have much more than you and it knocked her right out.” He gestured to where Sera was slumped over in her chair at a nearby table, apparently sleeping quite peacefully despite the noise of the room.

“Yeah well, talk to me again once it hits my bloodstream,” Varric said.

Bull motioned to the passing barmaid and grabbed a new mug, which he pushed towards Varric. “Here, some of the house ale will take the taste away. Krem used his charm” – he waggled his eyebrows suggestively – “and all drinks are on the house for you tonight.”

Stitches joined them and slid into a spare seat, with a mug in each hand. “Well, a bit of persuasion worked wonders and a few coins didn’t hurt either,” he announced to the company at large. “Our bard has agreed to sing us her song about Varric later on. She needs to fine tune it first, apparently. Or she might just be waiting for everyone to get so hammered they don’t care what it sounds like.”

“I knew there was a reason I came back,” grinned Varric.

Bull slapped him on the shoulder, nearly causing him to drop his ale. “Good to see you’re in a better mood!” he said. “You seemed kinda distracted this morning.”

“Yeah well, being dead will do that to you. I’m just glad to be among the _right_ kind of spirits again,” said Varric, cheerfully raising his mug. It was a pretty terrible joke even by his standards, but got a small cheer from the Chargers anyway, which probably indicated how much they’d had to drink.

“Ah you never had anything to worry about anyway,” said Bull. “What kind of self-respecting spirit would have gone near you?”

“A spirit of sarcastic comments?” suggested Krem.

“Or a spirit of trashy literature?” said Bull, grinning widely.

“A spirit of excessive chest hair!” called Dalish from across the table.

Varric held up his hands in mock surrender, and hailed the barmaid to order the Chargers a round of drinks on him by way of distraction. Sitting here with such a disparate group, listening to their chatter in the warmth and cheerful din of the tavern gave him a strange nostalgic feeling for the evenings back in the Hanged Man with Hawke and the others. Hawke would have gotten a kick out of going to his wake probably; she always had a weird sense of humour. Varric frowned thoughtfully and glanced around the room. Thinking of Hawke had made him think of Cassandra again (and he’d been doing so well in that regard) and the nagging feeling of unfinished business between them. Would she be here tonight? Bull had surely invited her, he had a soft spot for the Seeker and they seemed to get along surprisingly well.

Varric drained the rest of his blessedly normal tasting ale and stood up, muttering something vague about circulating the room. The Chargers were by now engrossed in some kind of debate that had sprung up between Rocky and Bull about explosives, and his departure was acknowledged with just a couple of waves and smiles before they turned back to the two, who seemed to be squaring up for an arm wrestle. Varric wove through the crowd, keeping an eye out for the Seeker, occasionally getting knocked on the head by people’s elbows, and getting drawn into sporadic conversation with increasingly inebriated well wishers. Excuse or not, he actually _did_ end up circulating the room, being bounced from one group to another for no more than ten minutes at a time; the Inquisitor and Cullen offering cheery and heartfelt appreciation for his return, Blackwall and the barman drawing him into a conversation about dwarven ales, Lead Scout Harding and some of the other scouts having a rare break from work and getting thoroughly smashed on principle, even – to his lasting amazement – a brief exchange with Vivienne and Solas, who were sitting at a table in a quiet corner deep in conversation, having been brought together, he assumed, by a mutual distaste for the proceedings. The fact that they had both turned up was rather touching, a show of friendliness unusual for either of them. Doubtless they wouldn’t stay long, but it meant something that they were here.

Varric was beginning to feel slightly out of sorts from the constant whirl of conversation (and possibly from Bull’s ale. What in Andraste’s name had been _in_ that stuff?) and was just considering giving up and heading back to spend the rest of the evening with the Chargers when he was waylaid by Dorian. The mage looked suave and unruffled as ever, if slightly overdressed compared to everyone else, and greeted Varric with a genuine smile.

“Quite a party,” he said.

“Yeah I should come back from the dead more often,” agreed Varric.

“Well, that could be arranged, I’m sure. I know people.”

“Necromancy humour? Classy.”

“Appropriate for a wake, surely?” Dorian surveyed the room with slightly detached interest. “I have to admit it’s not quite what I pictured. It’s really more like a child’s birthday celebration, but with more alcohol.”

“And less presents,” said Varric.

“Oh, that reminds me actually, I have something for you.”

Dorian reached into his pocket and held out his hand, and it took Varric a few seconds to realise what was in it – his earrings.

“I picked them up right after the battle,” said Dorian. “I suppose I thought someone might want them. To remember you by, I mean.” He shrugged. “I don’t know, one of your friends.”

Varric took them carefully. “Well I appreciate it Sparkler. I did feel sort of naked without them.”

Dorian grimaced. “I’ve had enough of _that_ image to last me a lifetime, thank you very much. Cassandra is over there, by the way.” He nodded towards a far corner.

“How did you know I was looking for—”

“Oh call it a wild stab in the dark,” said Dorian, a suspiciously smug look on his face. “I swear one day I’ll have Bull knock your two heads together.” And with that odd remark, he strolled off into the crowd.

Varric stared after him for a moment and then headed in the direction he had indicated. Cassandra was indeed sitting at a table in the corner near the door; he probably hadn’t spotted her until now because she was sitting down, and there was a large gaggle of people obscuring her from view from most of the room. Leliana was with her, and from what he could see they were talking quite pleasantly, both with goblets of wine in hand. The Seeker looked...relaxed enough, or as much as she ever did. Varric felt an odd feeling of relief upon seeing her, as if he had been holding his breath without realising. As he approached the table, Leliana glanced up, spotted him and smiled. She said a few words to Cassandra, who looked rather surprised from what he could see, and then walked off, weaving through the crowd in the direction of the door. Varric rolled his eyes at no-one in particular. Now the Seeker was sitting alone, he could hardly leave her like that, which was surely what Leliana had intended. So he walked up to the table, not quite sure even as he got there what he was planning to say. Cassandra glanced up at him and nodded in brusque greeting, then went back to apparently intently studying her goblet of wine.

“Varric,” she said, still not looking at him. “I’m unsure of the etiquette on such occasions. Congratulations, I suppose.”

“For not being dead? I guess that makes sense.”

“As far as anything about this event does,” she said.

“To be honest, I’m surprised you came.” Varric mentally kicked himself for that comment, since it was unlikely to make her feel any more comfortable.

“If you had actually been dead, I probably wouldn’t have,” replied Cassandra. “I find such celebrations of death...distasteful.”

“Then you’re missing the point Seeker. It’s supposed to be a celebration of life,” said Varric mildly, pulling up a chair and sitting down opposite her.

“Hmm.”

“Well, you’re not alone. Bull will take any excuse to have a good time, but Vivienne and Solas don’t seem convinced. Dorian compared it to a child’s birthday party,” said Varric, with an attempt at levity.

“Dorian is the son of a Tevinter Magister,” said Cassandra. “I suspect any celebration we have would seem paltry compared to what he is used to.”

“Well most people seem to be having a good time, and if they want to use me as an excuse, I say go for it,” said Varric.

Cassandra made a vague noise of assent but said nothing. For all she had seemed relaxed when he had seen her a few minutes ago, she hadn’t really looked him in the eye for their entire conversation. And now the silence stretched out between them, an almost physical thing in the room of vibrant clamour. Andraste’s ass, he may as well still be invisible. He searched vainly for anything to say.

“I saw you crying.” Shit. Well, so much for tact and subtlety. Damn Bull and his special Tevinter ale.

“Did you,” she said flatly, in a way that made him think she had perhaps expected this sooner or later. She took a drink of wine and continued, her voice impassive: “I suppose you also read the letter I wrote.”

“I didn’t, as it happens.”

She glanced sharply at him, clearly surprised. “Oh. It was...I was writing to the guard captain in Kirkwall.”

Well that was unexpected. “Aveline?” he asked incredulously.

“I thought your associates should be informed of what happened. And she is the only one for whom I have an address.”

“Well...thanks, Seeker. I’m glad you thought of it. You’re right, she would have wanted to know.” A sudden horrible thought hit him. “You didn’t send it, did you?”

“No, thankfully I did not get the chance.”

Varric relaxed and they lapsed into another long silence. They had wandered off the subject and he was glad, because facing her now it somehow seemed like too big, too strange a thing to talk about. He realised he had brought it up partly just to confirm that the moment had happened, that he hadn’t imagined it. He watched Cassandra surreptitiously, trying to read her expression. She didn’t seem particularly angry, or upset in any way. She just seemed slightly distracted. Tired too, now he was seeing her close up; there were dark shadows under her eyes. It was strange, he thought, that he should find this quiet brooding Cassandra so much harder to deal with than the usual barely-concealed-rage version.

“So,” he said, finally deciding to throw caution to the wind since she clearly wasn’t happy with him anyway, and probably nothing he could do would actually make things _worse_. “My finely tuned people skills are telling me that you aren’t your usual bright and chipper self right now Seeker. So what’s bothering you?”

“I missed you,” she replied simply, as if those three words weren’t the most extraordinary thing she had ever said to him.

“Well that proves it,” he said. “You’re clearly an imposter. What have you done with the real Cassandra?”

“Of course you would make a joke of it,” she said, and Varric was surprised to hear the bitterness in her voice. “I should not have expected otherwise.” She made a motion to rise from her chair and Varric hastily laid his hand on her arm to stop her.

“Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it Seeker,” he said. “I was just surprised, that’s all.”

“I haven’t been a Seeker for some time now, Varric,” she said wearily, relaxing in her seat. “But I am still Cassandra, I hope. Do you really think so little of me?”

“Of course not.” He removed his hand from her arm and shifted uncomfortably. “I guess I didn’t think that you thought very much of _me_.”

“I think you’re a liar and a scoundrel.” She scowled. “And the fact that you look _pleased_ with that appraisal does not speak well of you.” She paused and took another gulp of wine, giving the distinct impression of someone steeling themselves to say something unpleasant. “But you joined the Inquisition of your own free will, and stayed even when it looked to be falling apart. You’ve shown admirable...if somewhat _misplaced_ loyalty to your friends. You’re extremely capable and have proven yourself time and time again. I don’t believe you are a bad person, or unworthy of my company. I certainly wouldn’t wish you dead.”

“I feel like I should get that in writing for the next time you decide to point a sword at me,” said Varric, and regretted it instantly as she shot him an affronted look.

“I’ve never done so without good cause Varric,” she said, a slight edge coming into her voice. “I’ve explained my reasons to you, and it is not I who continues to antagonise. You brushed off any attempt at reconciliation.”

“Because your idea of reconciliation was to just tell me to get over it!” said Varric, stung despite himself. “It never crossed your mind just to actually apologise?”

“I _did_.”

“Yeah, you waited until after I was dead!”

“Because it was the only time I could get you to listen to me!”

They had both unconsciously risen from their chairs as their voices grew louder, and Varric became aware that they were beginning to draw stares from those around them. Cassandra glared at him, shoved her chair backward and put down her goblet with such force that the small amount of remaining liquid slopped over the side onto the table.

“Forget it,” she snapped. “This was a bad idea.”

She turned and stalked away, ignoring the turning heads of those she brushed past. The noise level in the tavern was loud enough that Varric couldn’t tell if she slammed the door behind her when she left, but it certainly looked like it. He stared after her.

 _What_ was a bad idea? Her apology? This wake? Her attending it? The two of them attempting to have a conversation at all?

The familiar feeling of frustration was back, of being on the edge of something he couldn’t quite grasp, and it was made worse by a sudden rush of guilt. The last thing he had meant to do was start another argument. Cassandra _had_ apologised for her actions towards him, after all. She had been genuinely grieved by his death. She had done everything she could to help him during the last few days. And now he felt like a complete bastard. Great. He rose from his seat and hurried out of the tavern after her.

Night had fallen and the clear icy sky was scattered with thousands of stars, in what would have been a quite breathtaking sight for anyone who didn’t have other things on their mind. At least Varric didn’t have to look for long. He found Cassandra sitting on the same low stone wall he had watched from when they had returned to Skyhold just a few days ago, just on the edge of the light spilling out from the tavern. She was staring at nothing in particular, and didn’t look round when he sat down next to her. Sitting side by side Varric was suddenly reminded of the night he had stayed with her while she wept, and once again he resisted the foolish urge to put his arm around her. The memory brought on a fresh surge of guilt.

“I rather thought we were past this,” said Cassandra quietly, still not looking at him.

“Well at least when we’re arguing you’re talking to me,” he replied, with slightly more honesty than he had intended. Perhaps he couldn’t blame Bull’s ale after all. Perhaps he was just sick of bullshit.

Cassandra sighed. “You can hardly blame me for not talking to you when I thought you were dead.”

“And after?”

“I didn’t know what to say.”

“So what you’re saying is that you find the prospect of cutting my head off with a sword easier than the idea of talking to me.” He had meant it to be lighthearted, but it came out rather bitter.

“No,” she said. “I did not find the prospect easy.”

There was something in her voice that he couldn’t quite place, a helplessness so unlike her, and perhaps this was it, the reason she had been so...perhaps it wasn’t that she had been ready to kill him, but that she had _not_. And so Varric asked the question, because it was all he could think of to say:

“Would you really have killed me?”

She turned to face him and her eyes glittered in the dark. “Without hesitation,” she said. And with no warning whatsoever, she pulled him roughly towards her and kissed him.

Of all the responses Varric had expected, this was not one of them. Her hands were icy cold on the sides of his face, her lips pressed fiercely, possessively against his. After just a few seconds she pulled away and stared at him, her eyes wide. She moistened her lips nervously with her tongue before speaking – _Maker save him_ – and when she did her voice was hoarse and hesitant.

“That...was _definitely_ a bad idea.”

“Seemed pretty good to me,” said Varric, his voice operating automatically with no actual input from his brain.

Cassandra looked somewhat in shock. “I’m sorry, I...I don’t know what I was...I should go.”

“That’s the second time in a week you’ve apologised to me Seeker. It’s getting to be a bad habit.” And before the moment could slip away as so many had, he cupped her face with his hands and drew her to him, a gentler echo of her own action. She gave the softest intake of breath before he kissed her slowly, deeply. His thumbs traced the sharp line of her cheekbones. Her tongue tasted of wine. She made a soft sound of pleasure at the back of her throat as they drew apart, slower this time, the faint clouds of her breath mingling with his in the icy air.

Varric found his voice first, and dropping his hands from her face once again said the first thought that popped into his head. “Maker’s breath,” he sighed, “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

Cassandra blinked. “You...have?”

Well, there was nothing for it now. “You have no idea.”

“But...I...you never said anything.”

He shrugged. “And what exactly should I have said? We were always too busy jumping down each other’s throats to think about jumping each other’s bones.”

Cassandra’s cheeks coloured. “Varric!”

Varric rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Sorry. Shit, I’m not very good at this. You’re right, I keep trying to make a joke out of it. It isn’t.”

“You really thought about that...about me, in that way?” said Cassandra, curiosity obviously getting the upper hand over embarrassment. “I always thought you disliked me.”

“I did sometimes,” he replied. “I can’t say being dragged into a dungeon when we first met made the best impression. But after I got to know you better, it turned out you weren’t as bad as all that.”

“And do you kiss everyone who you consider ‘not as bad as all that’?”

“No. Do you?”

She made no reply, her face still flushed, her eyes never leaving his. The familiar silence was back with a vengeance, now warm and heavy with things unsaid. The slightly off-kilter feeling from the ale had pretty much dissipated, though whether it was the cold air that had done it, or what had just happened, he couldn’t say. What the hell was he supposed to do now? How could he justify or explain this? Did he even want to? When this sort of thing happened in his books it was usually at the climax of some big dramatic scene. There wasn’t this awkward moment afterwards when you had to work out what to do next, and started to realise that sitting out in the open air freezing your asses off while not entirely sober was probably not the best time to be discussing matters of the heart.

Cassandra seemed to be thinking along the same lines. “We should...” she cleared her throat awkwardly. “We should continue this conversation at a later time, I think. When we are thinking more clearly.”

“You sure you don’t want to just wake up tomorrow and pretend it never happened?” asked Varric, trying to keep his tone light to disguise the genuine question.

“Not all of us see lying as a way of life, Varric,” said Cassandra, and it was the sort of thing she had said to him a hundred times, only now there was more there, a slight _affection_ behind the words that had never been before. Or maybe he just hadn’t wanted to see it before, because for all his creative flights of fancy he had never imagined for a moment that she would...that she might...

“I will see you tomorrow,” said Cassandra, who now seemed far more in control of the situation than he felt. She raised herself off the wall in one swift decisive movement and offered him a small smile before turning to walk away; the first genuine smile he had seen from her in so long that it felt more intimate than anything that had come before. For the effect it had, she might as easily have punched him in the chest.

Varric stared after her as she disappeared into the night, replaying the last few minutes with a kind of mingled horror and elation. What had he _done?_ More importantly, said a quite insistent voice at the back of his mind, was there any chance he could find a way to do it again? Preferably sometime soon?

He buried his head in his hands and gave a heartfelt groan. Shit, now he was _really_ in trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: this is secretly a story about a low stone wall. The low stone wall is the real protagonist. You think I'm kidding, but I already have another appearance planned for that wall. That wall has seen some shit.
> 
> I want to take this opportunity to thank everyone who has left a comment so far! I don't reply to them as a rule unless someone asks a specific question, but I read and appreciate each one (and obsessively check for new ones every day of course) As I mentioned before, I don't have a lot of experience writing fic and it's a little intimidating to know there are so many people reading this! I hope y'all are enjoying it, and be safe in the knowledge that there is plenty more shippy goodness (and the occasional bit of plot) to come :)


End file.
